CHAPTER THREE
The doctor called a town meeting. People were frightened and soon, he knew, they would start to turn on each other. He did the only thing he thought would easy their minds and help them forget. He told everyone that the Priest was mad, and in the woods, he killed all of the men and later himself. He told them the girl, Chloe, found her own way home. He told them their children were mistaken when they said the priest saved her.
Having the credibility he did the doctor was able to convince most people and eventually the Woondslane Witch became just another tale to make children clean their rooms. All the children involved either left the town or convinced themselves the priest had done it. The priest was the murderer and there was nothing supernatural about it. As the years went on people began to make new memories and push the ones from that day way back, some weren’t sure if anything had ever happened at all. Almost everyone simply forgot, except for one.
Chloe’s mother couldn’t take care of her without her husband. Since that day, Chloe became unresponsive. Her mother fed and bathed her but eventually she had to take her to an institution. It wasn’t long after that Chloe was forced out of her catatonic state by the strange and cruel methods the doctors employed. They told Chloe about the priest and asked if she remembered. But she never answered. Eventually they knew she was no longer ill, just scarred. They left her out and after weeks of travel she found her way home.
Chloe cared for her mother, who everyday apologized for sending her to the institution. Chloe never blamed her. Eventually she died and Chloe made a life for herself. She found a man and fell in love, but they were never legally married for the church was never rebuilt and no priest was willing to go to what they called “The Unholy Woods”
They had six children and soon the past began to fade in quiet nights of subtle happiness. Sometimes she even felt guilty for not wanting to tell them the story of the Witch, because after so long she almost believed it had just been a mad priest who’d killed her father. Almost.
But every now and then, when he thought she was asleep, her husband would gather up his children and tell them the story. Most of the time Chloe really was asleep. But every so often she would awake from nightmares and hear their whispering voices coming from downstairs. She tried not to listen but she always did. And the exciting, fantastical way her husband told the story, she knew was only because he wasn’t from Woodslane. And he believed nothing of what he said.
He was very interested in books and though he worked on a farm he’d learned to read and write long ago when he still lived in the city with his father. He took the experience he’d had with books and applied it to the story in just the right way. It’s true the Hathaway children almost hardly ever heard the story, but when they did, it was at a far better quality then any other child in all of Woodslane. He would begin the story the way all stories were meant to begin…
Once upon a time, there lived a woman who settled deep in the woods, this woman was only seen in the form of silhouettes, and only heard by passers by who weren’t sure if they’d heard anything at all. It was said that she killed her own food, hauled her own water and made her own clothes. She was a mystery to the people who settled in Woodslane, and though all were curious, none wanted to know.
It was said there was always a shortage of woodsmen here. All who crossed the threshold from the clearing into the woods reported the hearing of voices. Voices described in all ways and manners from angry shouts to whispering curses. The ones who believed the voices were evil were the first to call the woman a witch, and they never returned to the woods. But some men thought the voices were just the ravings of a mad woman whose thoughts had long ago turned dark. Alone too long, many of them said. But those men, the ones who returned time after time, cutting wood, taking what they could find and ignoring the shrieks and howls were the ones said to have the worst ends. Some were murdered, some took ill and suffered horrendous deaths that took weeks to claim them, others claimed to be haunted; none lived long enough to build anything from the wood they cut. The tree trunks were left to rot.
No one ever reported actually seeing the woman, and it was believed no one really had, until one morning. When the clocks stroke three; a young man was woken from his sleep. Well, I won’t say woken because, really, he was still asleep, and with closed eyes and deafened ears he rose from his bed and walked all along the town until he reached the path that led to the old woman’s house. He followed it blindly on instinct alone. If he were to become conscious, the young man would have run in fear and chained himself to his bed. Sometime in the afternoon, the man was found. He wouldn’t speak, wouldn’t shake his head yes or no when the doctor asked him questions and for seven years the young man lay silent in his bed. Sometime within those seven years was when the priest went mad. Then one day, without much warning, the young man woke up; only he wasn’t so young anymore. He was a raving lunatic; no one could understand what he was trying to tell them. His lungs filled with blood as he tried desperately to speak. Witch. He said between bloody coughs. It was the witch did this to me. She made me. I didn’t want to. She dug her fingers in my mind.
It wasn’t long after the man’s raves that he died. The people present at his deathbed were silenced by their horror. It was time to do something the town decided. And with that hundreds of men marched into the woods with torches and makeshift weapons. As the men approached the cabin they were introduced to the witch’s power. Half the men in the mob turned against his other and a bloody struggle began between life long friends. But the witch did not affect some of the men, for she could only hold so many in her magic. The cabin was raided and the witch was brought out screaming and spitting. To the men who held her it was like trying to tame a wild dog with no good intentions in its heart. As they brought her into town and readied a rope from which to hang her she cursed their names and the generations of children that were to follow. With her last breath she cursed the heavens and the Creator and swore her will be done. They pulled the rope until all her limbs went dull and buried what remained in a grave marked only with the symbol of the devil. Ever since that day, people have noticed something different about the night. There hangs a darkness, which seems to arrive too early and stay too late. A darkness that pays no attention to the sun; which hangs in the sky as idle and weak as the moon. Each night since had been darker than the last, and soon will come the day when there is no light left. The day when the witch will come back from the other side to fulfill her promise.
The Hathaway children always wondered why they so longed to hear the story for none of them felt safe or satisfied by its end, only the fear remained. Their father would calm them down and put them to sleep one by one. Out of all the children there was only one who felt something other than fear when she heard the story. There was only one who actually waited for the day when the night could go no darker. She pretended to be afraid like her brothers and sisters but inside she felt something else when she heard the story. Something not very different from anticipation.
Having the credibility he did the doctor was able to convince most people and eventually the Woondslane Witch became just another tale to make children clean their rooms. All the children involved either left the town or convinced themselves the priest had done it. The priest was the murderer and there was nothing supernatural about it. As the years went on people began to make new memories and push the ones from that day way back, some weren’t sure if anything had ever happened at all. Almost everyone simply forgot, except for one.
Chloe’s mother couldn’t take care of her without her husband. Since that day, Chloe became unresponsive. Her mother fed and bathed her but eventually she had to take her to an institution. It wasn’t long after that Chloe was forced out of her catatonic state by the strange and cruel methods the doctors employed. They told Chloe about the priest and asked if she remembered. But she never answered. Eventually they knew she was no longer ill, just scarred. They left her out and after weeks of travel she found her way home.
Chloe cared for her mother, who everyday apologized for sending her to the institution. Chloe never blamed her. Eventually she died and Chloe made a life for herself. She found a man and fell in love, but they were never legally married for the church was never rebuilt and no priest was willing to go to what they called “The Unholy Woods”
They had six children and soon the past began to fade in quiet nights of subtle happiness. Sometimes she even felt guilty for not wanting to tell them the story of the Witch, because after so long she almost believed it had just been a mad priest who’d killed her father. Almost.
But every now and then, when he thought she was asleep, her husband would gather up his children and tell them the story. Most of the time Chloe really was asleep. But every so often she would awake from nightmares and hear their whispering voices coming from downstairs. She tried not to listen but she always did. And the exciting, fantastical way her husband told the story, she knew was only because he wasn’t from Woodslane. And he believed nothing of what he said.
He was very interested in books and though he worked on a farm he’d learned to read and write long ago when he still lived in the city with his father. He took the experience he’d had with books and applied it to the story in just the right way. It’s true the Hathaway children almost hardly ever heard the story, but when they did, it was at a far better quality then any other child in all of Woodslane. He would begin the story the way all stories were meant to begin…
Once upon a time, there lived a woman who settled deep in the woods, this woman was only seen in the form of silhouettes, and only heard by passers by who weren’t sure if they’d heard anything at all. It was said that she killed her own food, hauled her own water and made her own clothes. She was a mystery to the people who settled in Woodslane, and though all were curious, none wanted to know.
It was said there was always a shortage of woodsmen here. All who crossed the threshold from the clearing into the woods reported the hearing of voices. Voices described in all ways and manners from angry shouts to whispering curses. The ones who believed the voices were evil were the first to call the woman a witch, and they never returned to the woods. But some men thought the voices were just the ravings of a mad woman whose thoughts had long ago turned dark. Alone too long, many of them said. But those men, the ones who returned time after time, cutting wood, taking what they could find and ignoring the shrieks and howls were the ones said to have the worst ends. Some were murdered, some took ill and suffered horrendous deaths that took weeks to claim them, others claimed to be haunted; none lived long enough to build anything from the wood they cut. The tree trunks were left to rot.
No one ever reported actually seeing the woman, and it was believed no one really had, until one morning. When the clocks stroke three; a young man was woken from his sleep. Well, I won’t say woken because, really, he was still asleep, and with closed eyes and deafened ears he rose from his bed and walked all along the town until he reached the path that led to the old woman’s house. He followed it blindly on instinct alone. If he were to become conscious, the young man would have run in fear and chained himself to his bed. Sometime in the afternoon, the man was found. He wouldn’t speak, wouldn’t shake his head yes or no when the doctor asked him questions and for seven years the young man lay silent in his bed. Sometime within those seven years was when the priest went mad. Then one day, without much warning, the young man woke up; only he wasn’t so young anymore. He was a raving lunatic; no one could understand what he was trying to tell them. His lungs filled with blood as he tried desperately to speak. Witch. He said between bloody coughs. It was the witch did this to me. She made me. I didn’t want to. She dug her fingers in my mind.
It wasn’t long after the man’s raves that he died. The people present at his deathbed were silenced by their horror. It was time to do something the town decided. And with that hundreds of men marched into the woods with torches and makeshift weapons. As the men approached the cabin they were introduced to the witch’s power. Half the men in the mob turned against his other and a bloody struggle began between life long friends. But the witch did not affect some of the men, for she could only hold so many in her magic. The cabin was raided and the witch was brought out screaming and spitting. To the men who held her it was like trying to tame a wild dog with no good intentions in its heart. As they brought her into town and readied a rope from which to hang her she cursed their names and the generations of children that were to follow. With her last breath she cursed the heavens and the Creator and swore her will be done. They pulled the rope until all her limbs went dull and buried what remained in a grave marked only with the symbol of the devil. Ever since that day, people have noticed something different about the night. There hangs a darkness, which seems to arrive too early and stay too late. A darkness that pays no attention to the sun; which hangs in the sky as idle and weak as the moon. Each night since had been darker than the last, and soon will come the day when there is no light left. The day when the witch will come back from the other side to fulfill her promise.
The Hathaway children always wondered why they so longed to hear the story for none of them felt safe or satisfied by its end, only the fear remained. Their father would calm them down and put them to sleep one by one. Out of all the children there was only one who felt something other than fear when she heard the story. There was only one who actually waited for the day when the night could go no darker. She pretended to be afraid like her brothers and sisters but inside she felt something else when she heard the story. Something not very different from anticipation.